


Stormborn

by mwinterknights12



Series: 'Stormborn' series [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 23:17:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14507634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwinterknights12/pseuds/mwinterknights12
Summary: Hey guys, so this is the offical new work for Stormborn. We are having a complete plot overhaul. Everything is being extended, love interests will go through new struggles, some characters may live this time, other may die. Just wait and see :)





	Stormborn

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, so this is the offical new work for Stormborn. We are having a complete plot overhaul. Everything is being extended, love interests will go through new struggles, some characters may live this time, other may die. Just wait and see :)

_26 th of Second Seed_

_Cyrodiil_

            The light...sometimes she thought she would forget it was even there if it were not for the incoherent colors that shined through her closed lids. The warmth of the sand and the sun; even the sounds of the ocean waves, all of it sent shivers throughout her body. Salt and flowers; the scent of it vibrated her senses. Violently blue eyes opened to drink in the view of the rising sun and navy waves of the Topal Bay. In the distance, she could see the shining walls of the White-Gold tower; a shimmering fortress meant to remind Cyrodiil that she belonged to the Empire. He was her husband and she was his bride. He would never leave her side…

    She fiddled with the gold amulet that clung heavily around her throat. Lyanna had done her the kindness of making it a simple chain with just the single pendant. Illia felt her chest ache once more. This was her final day in Cyrodiil...her last day in her home.

“Illia!” her mother called for her from the balcony of their estate. “You must not remain in the sun!”

    Illia sighed as Lyanna once again chastised her. Enjoying her last glance at the tower in the distance, she stood and allowed the sand to fall from her slender hands before making her way back inside the estate. The Stormborn’s home was smaller in comparison to the other nobles’ homes in the province. Natively from Skyrim, the Nordic family had left the region shortly after the summer that Illia was born. Emperor Tiber Septim the III had considered her father, Japheth, a close friend and ally. As such, he had requested that their family remain just outside the Imperial City. At the time Japheth had been happy to oblige and found Opal Manor to be perfect for their needs. A thick set of stone walls surrounded the home leaving gates in the front entrance and the rear exit. Within the stone were the gardens that were vibrant with colorful life. It was there and on the shores on the outskirts of the gate where Illia would be found reading her endless novels.

    The tales of the Oblivion Crisis, the stories of the Champion, romance, hatred, betrayal, and adventure; all of it filled her heart with a sense of longing for her own story. Yet it was never to be. In his study, she could see Japheth sealing the last of his letters as he ran his hand through his salt and pepper hair. It was something he often did when he was nervous. He couldn’t bare the thought of meeting her sorrowful gaze as she watched him from the doorway.

    He hadn’t spoken to her much since the arrangement had been made. He knew it was risky and the best decision for their family, but his daughter had been inconsolable. The thought of leaving her parents, her entire life behind was something she had dreamed of, but it was never for good. She had dreamed of adventuring and fighting, but never _this,_ never of marriage.

    When the Empire signed the White-Gold Concordat, she knew they had signed away their freedom to the elves. Her father had returned home drunk and in a rage.

“He signed away our very way of life, Lyanna!” he had screamed as he threw the contents of his desk to and fro. Her mother had stood there calmly as she always did. “To throw away the worship of Talos! These elven dogs!” Her father never looked at Tiber Septim the same way again.

She hadn’t realized that the decision would change her entire life. When rumors of the civil war in Skyrim began to spread, she had thought that it would remain there. General Tullius would dismantle the Stormcloak rebellion and it would be done. Her father, however, began to write furious letters.  Mysterious men began to appear in their home, and she began to feel the tides of change. Japheth didn’t just want change in Skyrim. In his eyes, the Emperor was a weak milk drinker, unworthy of his throne. He began to quietly fund Ulfric’s war, but had pushed the Nord further.

When the war in Skyrim was done, he would bring the fight to the Empire itself. Japheth would gain the backing of different houses within Cyrodiil, High Rock, Hammerfell, and Orsinium. Ulfric, however, remained uncertain. He had aspirations of gaining Skyrim’s independence and becoming High King, but becoming emperor was hardly a part of that. Japheth wasn’t a counselor to the Emperor for no reason. Once he finished gaining the backing for Ulfric’s war and guaranteeing him a spot as High King of Skyrim; all of the nations would join forces to not only defeat Cyrodiil, but also the High Elves of the Summerset Isles. In other words: Ulfric would not only win his war of independence from the Empire, but also would have his war against the elves. The Jarl could hardly refuse such an offer. However, there was a catch. Japheth was unwilling to lose his status. For generations his family had seeked to grow and maintain it. So, to seal the Stormborns within the ties of nobility, Illia was to be wed to Ulfric.  

Lyanna approached her, dressed head to toe in a blue dress. It was the normal material that most of the women in Cyrodiil wore due to the heat. Thin chiffon clung to the mature woman’s curves, her thick black hair just barely passing her shoulders. Illia looked so much like her with raven locks that had grown past the center of her back years ago. In the years to come, she was certain that she would look nearly identical to the woman.

“You must remain out of the sun.” she said, softly “You’re supposed to represent your Nordic heritage to Ulfric, not the Imperial you’ve grown up with.”

    Her mother had been pleased with the arrangement, hoping that her only daughter would marry someone of even higher standing. She had hoped that Illia would be arranged to marry one of the Emperor’s heirs, but Japheth refused such thinking after the Concordat was signed. The woman’s gray blue eyes softened as she handed Illia a dark blue dress lined with brown fur. The material was thick and heavy, but well made.

“Skyrim is not warm like Cyrodiil. When you’re presented to Ulfric, you must wear this with your Amulet of Mara.” she said, her smile warm and filled with excitement “I’m sure he will be pleased. You’re such a beauty, my child. I had a cloak made for you as well.”

“Thank you.” Illia replied solemnly. Her mother grasped her chin, lifting it up gingerly.

“Marriage is a wonderful gift, my dear.” she comforted “And soon you will have children! That is the greatest gift of all.”  Illia remained silent, her stomach churning at the thought of children. The idea of Ulfric having his way with her made her feel faint. She couldn’t stand the thought of it.

“When do I leave?” It was all that she managed to reply.

“This evening.” her mother answered promptly. “The servants have packed the last of your things. Was there anything you wished for them to bring in particular?”

“A few of my books, please.” she replied obediently. “Cera will know which ones to bring.”

“The ones with the darkened pages and folded corners, you mean.” Lyanna chuckled at her daughter “You’ll be able to afford even more books in Skyrim. Our homeland is even richer in her history than Cyrodiil.”

 

    Illia tried to smile, but found herself unable to be genuine. With a simple nod, she retreated to the gardens. The shaded area had allowed even more diverse and exquisite flowers to bloom. Orange blossoms, lilac, honeysuckle and various ivies had flourished over the gushing fountains and stone walls. Illia’s favorite spot was located across from a fountain statuette of the goddess Mara, her arms outstretched in an ever-loving embrace. It seemed that in this area, the Thorax bugs would accumulate in numbers so great that there was little need for candlelight during nighttime reading. The blossoms on both ground and tree had flourished, scattering their decadent scents throughout the air. Lyanna had told her once that she had spent so much of her childhood there that Illia would forever smell of rosebuds and honeysuckle.

Yet, it wasn’t just the beauty that attracted Illia to that holy place. It was the mother goddess who seemed to reside there. Being an only child, and a noble child at that, meant that the seventeen year old often found herself alone. She longed for a friend, for someone to know her intimately. Mara had become her friend. For hours, she would sit along the fountains edge, reading her stories to the goddess and speaking to her for what felt like hours. Of course, she was devout to the other gods as well, but her connection with Mara was special.

            She fell to her knees, crashing against the cobblestone ground, yet she could feel no other pain except the agony within her chest. Her fingers trembled, and her heart felt as though it were pounding within her throat. She had never felt so weak, so vulnerable before the statuette.

               “ _Mara hoc numen pius et misericors est a me consolator convertens obsecro opus in hac hora. Cor meum lapis quem dedi coram vobis viam adversus me et Pudet_.” The words poured from her lips in waves, decadent within the native tongue of Cyrodiil. Not many remembered the language, but highborns had been taught the language of the Akaviri for generations. “ _Si eam mihi in uxorem ducere hunc hominem, ut producat illum ad me diligis. Sin autem me aliud torno via abs te meque hoc onere._ _”_             

   She didn’t know what the gods would lay before her, but Illia was certain that Mara would not abandon her. The goddess would follow her, wherever she went. She would fulfill whatever role the gods had laid out.    

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_31 of Midyear_

_Skyrim_

 

She remembered little about her native homeland. From her memories, she could pull in the scent of rain and mud; they had lived in the borders of Falkreath. The boat churned and buckled beneath her feet as Captain Gallows signaled them to dock on the border. The coast looked nothing like her memories. Snow came down in great waves, nearly blinding her. If she had worn her clothes from Cyrodiil, she would have frozen in a matter of seconds.

“It’s only a few miles to Windhelm.” Captain Gallows said. The man had gone above and beyond his duty to Ulfric in making her comfortable. His tales of being an adventurer had pict her curiosity. He had travelled to Hammerfell and Valenwood. Somehow, the seasoned sailor had learned the different languages of the elves and even a little Argonian. The captain had been surprised at her thirst for stories and tall tales.

“So why did you become a sailor?” she had asked “You seemed to love traveling and exploring more.”

“I came across a Forsworn camp over in the Reach.” he had replied, his voice thick with a Western Nordic accent. “I fought off plenty of the bastards, but a damned archer got me in the knee. I barely escaped with my life. Ulfric’s men had found me, and hired me on as a sailor. It’s an honorable profession.”

“Is he a good man?” Illia had been unable to stop herself from asking “I’ve never even seen him, let alone shared a word with him.”

“Ulfric is a good man, a true Nord.” Gallows explained “He’s not perfect, but he loves his people and would do anything for them. I know nothing of what kind of husband he will be, but he’s a fiercely loyal friend. I think you find happiness with him, m’lady.”

    She pulled her hood tightly over her head, shielding her hair and ears from the bitter cold. There wasn’t much on the port except a small shack where fishermen would escape from the frost. Gallows assured her that the weather would become warmer as they approached the center of the land. Windhelm, however, would be littered with endless blankets of snow. She would have to learn to love it. Dead trees and evergreen pines were a blur in the distant fog, but along the road, she could make out a covered carriage. Gallows guided her, taking her hand to help her step into the carriage.

“Good bye, m’lady.” he said with a warm smile “It’s been an honor to meet the future High Queen on Skyrim.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Several Hours Later…_                

     The carriage was cloaked, something uncommon in Cyrodiil. The sturdy wood had been sanded smooth and stained the color of ash. Illia was glad to be out of the cold, although she clung tighter to her cloak. She wondered if she would ever get used to it. Part of her wondered why her mother had even bothered to pack her clothes from Cyrodiil; nothing would be suitable to wear in the regions weather. Perhaps Lyanna had simply wanted her to feel as though she was taking part of home with her.                              

         Lyanna had been more understanding than Japheth in Illia’s aversion to Skyrim. Although she had spent two years of her life in the land, she knew little of it except for the stories her father had told her when she was just a girl. Lyanna had reassured her more than once that she would find that her old native land was even richer in history than Cyrodiil.                

      Most stories Illia had ever heard about the Nordic homeland involved its servitude to the dragons before it later became a province of Cyrodiil. She knew that the Nords valued honor above all else, so much so that compromise would be considered near impossible if it meant weakening one’s resolve. With a culture that valued such bullheadedness and strength, it was no wonder the civil war had erupted so quickly.               

Illia had heard only rumors of the Stormcloaks when she had been in Cyrodiil. From what most had said, Ulfric had been a usurper intent taking the throne from High King Torig. Japheth had argued, however, that the challenge was worthy and legal. In fact, he had gone so far as to say that the people of Cyrodiil would never understand Nordic tradition simply because they valued the sorcery of the tongue over truth. Despite herself, Illia couldn’t help but agree.               

It wasn’t that the girl did not love Cyrodiil. However, more often than not, she couldn’t understand the politics of it all. It seemed every marriage was disposable and out of convenience. She wondered if any noble family had married for love. Her father had told her during those times that it was her Nordic roots which were eager to strengthen.               

_“Only Nords marry for love. They have no time for fancy words or gifts.”_ Japheth had said _“But our love is earnest and sincere. When I married your mother, it was not because of her status; it was because I loved her.”_                

Illia wondered how long it had taken Japheth to convince Ulfric to go against his own nature to arrange a marriage with her. Despite forever living in a loveless marriage, Illia had other fears. One being her own lack of experience. Ulfric was older than her…much older. In fact, she still had several moons left before she reached her eighteenth year. He was thirteen years her senior and she doubted he had remained alone during that time. He wasn’t a boy; he was a man and as such he would desire…things…services. Illia had never even been kissed by a boy, let alone---her stomach was in knots at the thought. 

                 “Are you alright, m’lady?” The man riding with her in the carriage was young, younger than she had anticipated one of Ulfric’s men to be. He looked to be in his twenties, his thick black hair hung low in his pale face. He seemed…different from the other soldiers. Dressed in ragged navy robes which were so darkened with dirt that they appeared black, he still managed to appear less boisterous than the other Stormcloaks. A patchy amount of scruff lined his face, his sharp features more apparent with the shadow his facial hair cast. The mage was of a medium build, which was quite small in comparison to the burly men who surrounded him. However, the most striking feature that caught Illia’s attention was his amethyst eyes, so bright and dazzling that it left her in awe. He was handsome to be sure, but Illia did not allow her mind to linger in that thought for long. She had a future husband to think about. 

“I’m sorry.” Illia had forgotten what he had asked, too entranced in her own thoughts to think of the reality which was circulating around her. The mage, Darren, if she remembered his name correctly, had a cold demeanor but he attempted to come across in a warm manner.  

 “You appeared rather pale.” He replied, his voice aloof and unfeeling. “I was simply inquiring about your health.” 

“Oh, “ Illia replied, immediately pinching her cheeks to restore them with life. She knew the Nords preferred their women to be pale with rosy cheeks. At least that was what her mother had told her. Lyanna had cursed herself for having raven locks for years, wishing that instead she could have blessed her child with the icy blonde locks that most women in Skyrim had. Illia, however, had always liked her ebony tresses; she couldn’t picture herself without them. “I am fine. I am anxious to make it to Windhelm.” 

“We aren’t going to Windhelm.” The mage replied, his tone still steady in its apathy. “We are to meet Ulfric at Dark Water Crossing. From there, we will travel to Windhelm while this carriage travels in another direction.”  

“Why would we do that?”  “To avoid suspicion.” Darren explained, pushing back the curtain to observe the landscape. “Many would think that this carriage is being used to transport cargo. We want them to believe so. Once you’re in the care of our Jarl, we will keep riding this carriage until we reach the Rift. If any Imperials catch wind of our little trip, they’ll believe it was for supplies.”                

“Ulfric must be intent on keeping my presence here a secret.” Illia murmured, this time picking at her nails in annoyance. Skyrim really was cold; this mage was proof of it. Every move was calculated and weighted; the same as in Cyrodiil. She wondered if the sons of the Skyrim really expected any change under new leadership. All monarchies were the same.  

“Jarl Ulfric knows the importance of your safety.” Darren said, very keen on correcting Illia’s misuse of Ulfric’s name. It was disrespectful to refer to a jarl in such a way. Illia didn’t bother to roll her eyes; she didn’t care. She was just another pawn for Ulfric to use. “He will do whatever it takes-“               

      Before Darren could continue in whatever speech had been drilled into any Stormcloak that wished to defend his master’s intentions, he was interrupted by a sudden halt that caused Illia to almost fly out of her seat and into his lap. Embarrassed, the girl quickly readjusted her skirts and flew back into her seat. Outside, Illia could hear the stomping of soldiers and feared the worst. Darren, however, quickly stepped out of the carriage to find out what was the matter.               

     A gust of wind carried the scent of smoke and ash into the carriage and she heard a whisper of Darren’s gasp. Ignoring her better judgement, she quickly exited the carriage, cloaking her face with her hood.  Outside, the sun blinded her, making it difficult to see from the light reflecting against the snow. But what she did see left her breathless. Fresh blood dotted stained the white landscape, reminding Illia of the winter treats her parents would give her when she was a child. It didn’t take long for the noble girl to recognize the familiar armors of Imperials and Stormcloaks. Was this Dark Water Crossing? And if so, where was Ulfric? She took a step forward, hearing her feet crunch beneath the snow until the sun could no longer blind her vision. What she saw burned into her memory. Bodies….there were so many bodies. Men’s faces were painted in ghastly masks of terror and agony, frozen in their horrified forms for the entire world to remember how they passed. Their skin had changed to a deadly pale color, their insides shredded and ragged for all to see. Birds of prey and other vultures began to feast upon the rotting flesh of the dead, swallowing each bloody gulp of tissue with a violent screech. Illia tried to hold back the rising bile in her throat until she looked at a body standing below near her feet; it was a young man, no older the seventeen, barely old enough to grow his first chin hairs. His skull had been crushed in by a warhammer, the brains and blood smeared across the snow as though it were putty. The scent of his blood crossed Illia’s nose and she vomited within moments.                

Darren finally noticed that she had exited the carriage, and quickly turned to help her as she wretched. When she had finally finished, he handed her a handkerchief before he finally spoke. “You need to get back inside the carriage. We can’t risk any spies seeing you.”

“But Ulfric, is he-“

“I don’t know.” interrupted Darren. He was frustrated, that much was certain, but he maintained a cool exterior that chilled Illia’s bones. “But my job right now, Lady Stormborn, is to keep you safe. Now, please, get back in the carriage.”

Illia submitted, moving back into the carriage as she heard Darren give orders to the soldiers. Some were in sent South, other West, others North; the rest would escort them to Windhelm. Darren returned to his seat within moments, deadly silent as Illia watched him from the opposite seat. This time, her hands returned to fiddling with her amulet of Mara and she found herself praying once more; this time it was not for herself, but for the dead that now dotted the landscape.    

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

 

_16Th of Midyear_

_Windhelm_                

The Palace of Kings felt…empty. The expansive rooms filled with heavy, oak furniture and warm sconces still felt cold and strange to Illia. It had been almost two weeks since she had been at Dark Water Crossing. Jarl Ulfric had yet to return to Windhelm, and she had been forced to remain within the stone walls of the palace. She had explored almost every corner and crevice of the gargantuan castle, feeling as though she were a ghost. There were several bedrooms, one of which obviously belonged to Jarl Ulfric. Several armors and trophies lined the walls. Several strange looking swords and shining spears were protected in various display cases.               

What had struck Illia the most was the art. Artwork of battles and royalty, in red, purples, and oranges; the colors splashed against the canvas in various frames. Illia hadn’t expected Ulfric to have such a collection in his private quarters. She wondered if he had chosen them for any purpose other than his own enjoyment.                

The rest of the Palace of Kings was lavishly decorated in other art, weapons, trophies, curtains, and banners. Yet, there were few people residing within the lonely fortress. A servant girl named Freya often attended to Illia’s needs, but was not much for conversation. Other men were wondering around and of course several guards were stationed around the halls, but for the most part, Illia was left alone to wander about and explore.                

Except, however, for the looming shadow which was always following her: Darren. The mage kept a close eye on her at all times of the day, his amethyst eyes always looming over her shoulder. She considered him a shadow now because his dark figure was always a step behind her. They had spoken only on one occasion. It had taken place in the library, Illia’s favorite place in the entire palace. The dark shelves were lined with endless books and maps; enough to pass the time for hours. She had been lounging in one of the plush chairs when she sensed the familiar presence of the mage peering over her shoulders. Closing her book, she turned to face him dead in the eyes.

“Is there something I can offer you, Darren?” It was the first time she had ever called him by his name. He seemed shocked that she even remembered it.                

“You seem to be in here all the time.” Said the mage, running his fingers along the spines of various novels stretched across the shelves. “Do you always hunger for knowledge in this way?”“

“I spent a majority of my time reading in the gardens while I lived in Cyrodiil.” Illia replied, happy to speak of the memory. “However, it’s too cold to read in Windhelm’s gardens.”              

“I’ve not met many women who spend much of their time reading. Especially highborn women.” Darren continued, obviously disdaining the fact that Illia was of noble birth. “Most of the time they are too busy keeping up with the latest fashions from Cyrodiil to bother doing something productive. It seems you’ve managed to do both.”              

“You’re very quick to judge.” Illia retorted “I simply dress in whatever attire my mother had asked me to wear. Even the clothes you see me wearing now were chosen by her in order to instill trust between me and the jarl. I care little for fashion or other bobbles. Many other women would too if it were not for patriarchal mages who wish to continue in feigned pleasantries.”

“Well aren’t you well spoken?” His condescending tone left little to be desired. “I’m only fair, m’lady. I am only quick to judge those who are quick to judge me.”               

“Then do be fair, Mr. Blackwater.” Illia spat “I’ve never spoken ill of you until today, and I had the decency to say it your face. I hardly know what I’ve done to receive your ire, but if you would refrain from looming over me as though I were a child, I believe we would become better acquaintances.” 

“My apologies, Lady Stormborn. I was simply commenting on the nonconformities of your character.” He replied, his demeanor once again cool and hollow. “If you wish for my presence to remain absent, I can make you no promises. My dedication to the jarl’s orders will always surpass your fancies; however, I will do my best to avoid your indignation.”                

           True to his word, Darren had remained out of Illia’s presence. Although, she found herself strangely missing the feeling of him watching her. It felt like she was always protected. However, the recollection of the events that had transpired in the library quickly changed her point of view. Besides, it wasn’t as though she could focus on the mage’s feelings towards her. Still she wondered if the mage had been trying to pay her a compliment but had simply misspoken. Nor did her mind have time to linger on the opinions of a stranger.                

            Although they would not tell her, Illia could hear rumors circulating among some of the guards in the Palace of Kings. Dragons…the first to be seen in over a millennia. Jarl Ulfric and many of his men had been transported to the city of Helgen. By some strange miracle of the dragon’s return, the Stormcloaks had managed to escape the grip of the Empire. However, cost had been the entire city; Helgen was decimated, completely leveled to the ground. Illia wasn’t sure how Ulfric had survived. Of course, that was if the rumors were true and he had survived the destruction of Helgen; he still had not arrived at Windhelm.   “Lady Stormborn,” A guard approached her, startling her out of her thoughts and causing her to nearly spill her evening tea over her blue and white dress. Although the color blue was not her favorite, the thick material was a relief from the chill that clung to air around Windhelm; she would have been very disappointed to see it be ruined.  

“Yes, Erik.” Illia recognized the man easily enough. He was often the guard that would speak with her on important matters. “Has there been word on Jarl Ulfric?” 

“He’s returned.”    

 

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

 

_19th of Midyear_                 

          Time passed slowly over those three days as Illia tried to settle her nerves. Although Jarl Ulfric had returned, he was in need of a healer and a few days rest. She had only caught a glimpse of him, his clowns torn and charred. The scent of sulfur lingered over him and the other soldiers who followed suit. However, she was finally expected to meet with him today. She hoped he wouldn’t pressure for marriage so soon after their first meeting; if she was going to spend the rest of her life with this man, she at least hoped to know him better.                 

Freya, the kind woman that she was, continued to carefully lace the corset of Illia’s dress. She was a small girl, especially for a Nord woman. Her fingers were quick and nimble and calloused from her work, but a smile continued to linger over her even as she concentrated on the intricate weaving of the lace. Illia never cared much for dressed; her mother had always complained about the rips and tears and mud that ruined so many of her gowns. Looking back, Illia regretted how much she had probably cost her parents in clothing, but she also wished her mother would have abandoned Cyrodiil’s principle on wearing slacks; she wanted the freedom to run and to play.

“Are you excited to meet the jarl, Lady Stormborn?” Freya asked her, her cheeks rosy with excitement. Even if Illia was not, she was sure that Freya was containing enough anticipation for the both of them. Instead, she chose to avoid the question.               

“I’ve told you before Freya that I would like us to be close. Just call me Illia.” She watched the girl blush, she couldn’t have been older than fifteen. She looked at Illia as though she were some celebrity. It worried her. If someone like Freya could be swooned so easily by her presence, she was certain she had gathered others attention as well. Illia feared the gossip, the rumors of her presence in Skyrim. It had to remain a secret, or her parents would face treason in Cyrodiil. Another reason Illia prayed Ulfric would wait before marrying her; her parents could face death if word got out. She had been furious at their decision to remain in Cyrodiil, but Japheth had been adamant in remaining, saying that alliances still needed to be forged. Alliances felt more and more like hostage situations.

“My apologies, Illia.” Freya stuttered to say. It was a good start. “So, are you excited to meet the jarl?”

“Nervous would perhaps be a better description.” Illia replied under her breath.

“Oh, Jarl Ulfric is a true Nord, Lady Illia.” The girl continued as though she was star struck by the jarl. Illia supposed he was a hero to the Nords residing in Windhelm. “He’s so good to the servants, gives us plenty of food and good lodging. He even took care of my brother and I when our parents fell ill, made sure we had a roof over our heads.”                

But could the same be said for the Dark Elves and the Argonians? Illia wondered. She had no doubt in her mind that Ulfric would make sure the Nords were well protected and taken care of. It was the other citizens residing within Windhelm that she worried about. Freya finally finished tying the laces, leaving Illia to stare at her own reflection with disdain. She looked…beautiful. Her black curls had been pulled into a loose updo, allowing a few of strands to hang in her face. The dress, she remembered in particular her mother gawking over this one, was ivory with blue floral patterns which had somehow been made to shine. White lace trimmed the hem and sleeves, leaving her to look almost bridal. Illia loathed it. She wanted to rip the Amulet of Mara from around her throat and run. But she had a promise to honor, a duty to fulfill. She could not abandon it for idealistic dreams.

“I suppose its time to meet the jarl then.” She finally whispered, forcing back the tears before turning to make her leave.                                              

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~               

 

The dining hall was expansive and elegant. A long table stretched from one end of the room to the other, lined with heavy chairs and candles. The continual theme of navy banners with the Stormcloak crests hung along the walls, but Illia was most joyous over the flowers. They were native to Skyrim, but they made her think of the gardens at home. The Jarl had yet to make his entrance, but the tables had been set with glass china and bottles of Alto wine. Illia knew she was desperate for a drink, anything to stop the trembling in her hands. The sound of her heart hammering in her chest scared her more than it should have, and she wondered if she’d even be able to eat the meal the servants had prepared for her; her stomach was practically in her throat.               

Even still, she remained standing, awaiting the jarl with fervent anxiety. Until finally, as the cold sweat began to dampen her hand, the door opened and she could finally lay eyes on the full figure of Jarl Ulfric. He was handsome in his own right, a strong nose and chiseled jaw. His beard had been groomed, so he appeared fearsome yet clean. Illia found herself intimidated by his presence. But what she feared the most was the terrible gaze of his silver eyes which followed the trail of her body up and down.                

He approached her slowly, his eyes unwavering, and Illia could feel the blood leaving her limbs, making it almost impossible to stand upright. He had a small limp, no doubt from the injuries he had suffered in Helgen, but he maintained a strong stride. Finally, he stood face to face with her, although it was difficult to look at him due to the height her had over her.                

“Lady Stormborn, I glad to finally meet you.” The words left his lips in a throaty bellow, although she could tell he was trying to be warm. He took her hand, which she was immediately embarrassed by due to its dampness, and ran his lips across her knuckles. Illia felt as though her skin was on fire, making her want to run even faster away from this man. _“I’m not ready for this…I’ll never be ready for this.”_ Her terrible thoughts were overwhelming her, but somehow she managed to appear cool, calm, and collected. “Please sit.”                             

After helping her with her chair, Ulfric moved to take his seat which was thankfully across the table. It was soon after that, servants appeared, beginning to serve the pair with fragrant meats and vegetables and bread. Illia forced herself to eat, trying to use it as a distraction from Ulfric’s glances. After spreading some butter across it, Illia finally managed to swallow some bread and wine, although she had a bit more wine than what she knew was proper. It managed to slightly steady her nerves.

“So, “ Ulfric began to speak after a sip of wine “I’ve heard you’re a woman of character.” She could hear him clear his thunderous throat. Was he nervous as well? She doubted it. Men like Jarl Ulfric must have been used to meeting young women.                

“I wouldn’t know, Jarl Ulfric.” Replied Illia as she lifted her forked to take a bite of grilled leeks. “I seldom pay any mind to gossip, especially when it concerns me.” At that he smiled before chewing on some smoked venison.

“Neither do I, at least not until recently. Rumors often hold clues to the truth.”

“And what truths did you learn about me, my jarl?”

“Darren informed me of you quick wit and even quicker tongue.” The jarl was chuckling. Was he entertained by her spat with the mage? Illia tried to contain her embarrassment. “What it showed me is that although you are young; you are not one to be trifled with.”               

“Is my age something that repels you?” asked Illia, although she was certain she already knew the answer. She was but a babe in comparison to any other woman the jarl had been with.

“It was something I was unsettled with.” Ulfric answered very matter-of-factly. “I’ve never dreamed of marrying a near child. However, the Thalmor must be defeated, and if it means I must play politics to ensure the Nords protection, I will look past my own objections.”               

“So, this marriage is simply a means to an end for you, Jarl Ulfric.” It wasn’t a question but a statement. Illia felt it was better to have it out in the open, for neither of them to pretend it was more than what it was; a political arrangement made from mutual goals. She was certain he would sleep with other women after their heirs would be produced, leaving her to oversee children and remain in her loneliness. At least she’d have her books.                

“To say otherwise is a lie. I do not know you, Lady Stormborn.” Ulfric replied before he took another sip of his wine. “However, if we are to marry, I would very much like to know you.” 

 

_“Like to know me.”_ The whisper escaped Illia’s lips so softly that even she could barely hear her own words. What would knowing her accomplish? In the end, he would still be bedding a girl who was nearly half his age. Once again, she felt her stomach churn at the thought. It was bad enough she was going to have to spend the rest of her life with a man she didn’t love, let alone the services that would come with it. “I suppose we’ll simply learn to be friends.” 

“Indeed.”    

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

 

_Later That Night…_               

 

Illia had immediately retired upon finishing dinner. She and Ulfric had hardly spoken a word to one another for the rest of the meal, and she was eager to retreat to her solitude. She spent the rest of the evening in her nightgown, beneath the heavy blankets so it appeared as though she were sleeping. Freya came into the room only once to check on her but seemed to believe that noble girl asleep.                 

It wasn’t until the early hours of morning that Illia arose from her bed in order to relieve herself. Wrapping herself in her robes, she made her way through the halls. She loved the Palace of Kings at night. Perhaps, it was because felt empty in a different way, as if it were some old ruin, rich in history and stories. It was easy enough to walk quietly on the stone floors, although her toes felt chilled to the bone. Luckily, the halls were dimly lit so it was easy enough to find the chamber rooms. After concluding her business, she made quick work to wash the any possible filth from her hands before she made her move to return to her room. However, she noticed a brightly lit room, strange considering the hour. Ignoring her better judgement, she moved in closer so she could listen.                 

Ulfric stood alongside two other men; the mage Darren, and the burly soldier Illia had come to know as Galmar Stonefist. Galmar was as much a Nord as she could ever picture one; extremely tall and stocky. Every inch of his body was covered in raw muscle with a thick layer of fat. His beard was unkempt and gray, and he looked as though her struggled with it entering his mouth throughout the day. Beyond that, what else she noticed were the scars. They were mangled and horrible, twirling around his forearms and throat like sick tattoos.                 

 

The trio was staring over a map of the Skyrim, the different regions holding different colored statues to represent the movements of the Stormcloaks and Imperials. Illia was curious. She had heard little of the war since she arrived in Windhelm, less than what she had even heard in Cyrodiil. It was unsettling, considering she was in the heart of the fighting. 

“The Silverblood await your orders in the Reach.” Galmar informed the jarl. “Although, they requested for you to not send the bastard mage. They said they don’t want a filthy bloodline in their presence.” Illia had to hold back a gasp at the amount of disrespect Galmar was showing Darren. Although the Silverbloods might have said such things, it seemed the Nord was quick to call out Darren’s bloodline. Perhaps the two were in strife against the other.                

Darren seemed untouched by the comment, as if he was used to this kind of shame. She had not known he was a bastard. In Cyrodiil, it was almost impossible to become involved in political affairs with such a reputation. Still, somehow Darren had managed to become an advisor to Jarl Ulfric. He must have been a man of great determination.  

“I do not answer to the Silverbloods. Their caddy banter is passive and dishonorable; Darren has proven himself to be a true Nord.” Ulfric proclaimed, very quick to protect the mage from Galmar’s attacks on his character. “What word do we have from the Rift?”               

“Thieves are laying waste to the city.” Darren replied in the same cool, aloof tone that characterized him in Illia’s mind. “Whatever bane had kept the Guild underground has lifted. It’s not just affecting the Rift, but the villages surrounding it. Which means-“               

“They have a new leader. One who is very smart too.” Ulfric continued, looking over the reports sent from the Rift. “They aren’t hitting the homes of the poor; they’re too good for that. These are manors. Goldenglow Estate, Honeybrew Meadery, even Markarth. They were either looking for something, or they had intentions towards big targets, which require more planning.”

“Seems like something you would do.” Darren quipped.

“Perhaps if I were led into that sort of life.” Ulfric replied, containing his smile. “However, I do believe we can work this to our advantage.”

“You want to make a deal with their Guildmaster?” Darren asked, an eyebrow raised. It seemed unexpected for the jarl to use a nefarious group such as the Thieves Guild towards his own advantages.                “Thieves make excellent spies, particularly when they are paid well.” Galmar noted, although he didn’t seem to be thrilled with the idea of working with thieves either. Still, he trusted Ulfric with his life.

“I wasn’t thinking about spies, but perhaps we could direct them towards Imperial strongholds. Pay them to ignore the passing Stormcloaks and their provinces. Besides, there is more gold to be made from the Imperial regions.” Ulfric continued “Let the thieves be what they are, and let it serve our own purpose.”

“An excellent idea, my jarl.” Darren said “However, while we are on the topic of spies, I believe there is another matter we must discuss; that being Lady Stormborn’s presence within Windhelm.” 

“Say your piece, Darren.”              

“It has come to my attention that rumors are already beginning to circulate about her presence within the Palace of Kings. This could be problematic, considering her father is still forging alliances with our future allies in High Rock.” Explained Darren, his eye watchful and his lips in a thin line as he chose his words. “If she were to be discovered here, it is likely that there would be a sharp turn of events for the Stormborns in Cyrodiil.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I think it would be wise for us to keep Lady Stormborn in a secluded region, perhaps along the borders of Winterhold.” Darren continued “There she would be safe, guarded, but out of the watching eyes of servants and guards. Her presence must remain a secret if we are to gain leverage against the Thalmor.”

“Bah!” Galmar interrupted “That takes too much time, and too many resources we don’t have. And what if the girl was to fall prey to danger and we were unable to protect her? What then would that say to our allies?”               

“Galmar makes a point.” Ulfric finally spoke “I do not like the idea of the girl being left with a simple guard to keep her safe from the Thalmor and the Imperials; especially when rumors of her are becoming as frequent as you are saying.”

“I say marry the girl now.” Galmar urged, striking his fist to his palm. “The sooner the alliance is solidified, the better.”               

“If the marriage was to become public so soon, Japheth Stormborn would be executed for treason and any alliances he tried to forge would die with him.” Darren countered, although it was clear something else was motivating his ire. Clearly, he and Galmar had history. “And beyond that; this is your future wife, Jarl Ulfric. You will have to get along in some manners, and being responsible for the untimely death of her family could easily cost you any chance of happiness you have in this situation.”

“A girl raised in Cyrodiil, Nord or no, does not know meaning of connection to family.” Galmar argued. Illia seethed at the desiccation of her character. How dare the skeever-headed Nord judge her in such a way? “The women are raised to follow duty. She will marry you and carry out her family’s goals regardless if they are alive or not. They simply want the throne.”              

“Ulfric, you can’t do this.”

“Enough!” Ulfric finally exclaimed, nearly causing Illia to shriek. Darren immediately bowed his head as a sign of submission and respect to the jarl. Galmar simply snorted. Ulfric didn’t seem to mind either of them, although Illia was fighting back the anger that was building in her chest. Still, she had to remain cool, calm, and collected; she would have to bide her time until she learned what to do. “I will think on the matter. Until then, any information remains between us. The less the girl knows, the better.”               

 

_The girl…_ Only Darren had called her by her name, but even to him she was just another tool for Ulfric’s plot. Illia wasn’t even sure if she agreed with the Stormcloaks, and here she was being forced to marry their leader. But beyond that, she feared what Darren had said. If rumors were already starting to get out about her presence in Windhelm, they would grow worse the longer she remained. Eventually the Emperor would send out his spies, and she would be caught, and her parents would suffer as a consequence. Even though they were the reason she was in this mess, she couldn’t bear the thought of harm befalling them. No—if Ulfric would not guarantee their safety then she would.                             

       ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

_20th of Midyear_               

There were some benefits to being alone in Windhelm. One of them being that people were oblivious to when one started to gather items in order to leave Windhelm. Illia did not know the first thing about Skyrim, making a map the first thing on her list of items to gather. It had taken quite a bit of time, but somehow she had managed to get her hands on some light rations, some bread, a water skin, and a few apples, as well as some servants clothes. Illia knew she would have to abandon most of what she had come with, so she sold a sapphire ring that she owned to one of the servants for any of the septims he had in his pocket, which had been about twenty five in total. Her biggest challenge would be to gather weapons.                

Illia knew very little of fighting, although her father had insisted that she learn how to wield a bow. An iron dagger was simple to get her hands on, but a bow…that was a different matter entirely. She would have to break into the armory before stealing one of the horses from the stable. It would have to be one of the last things she took.                She had quietly stored all the things she gathered (the rations, coin, the dagger, and clothing) in a leather satchel, which she quickly hid under a loose board under her bed. She had just finished wiping the dust from her skirts when she heard a knocking on her door, causing her heart to race.

“Come in.” Somehow she had managed to not stutter the words, although she wasn’t sure how she would last for the rest of the conversation. Darren entered her room quietly, shutting the door softly behind him before he approached her.              

“Lady Stormborn, I was hoping that I may speak with you.” The aloof tone in his voice remained intact, yet she noticed some furrowing of his brow. Still, she simply nodded in an effort to avoid drawing his attention. “The other day, I was incredibly rude in the library, and it was apparent that I offended you. I sincerely apologize for it; it was never my intention to cause strife between the two of us. I am harsh with my words.”              

“I believe we were both harsh with our words, Mr. Blackwater.” Illia replied, continuing to dust off her skirts. “Perhaps, we can come to an understanding.”

“I hope so, m’lady.”

“In which case, I would ask that you call me Illia. If it makes you uncomfortable to do so in front of company, then please do so when we are alone.” She replied, her mouth stretched in an awkward grin. Darren seemed surprised by the offer, but nodded appreciatively.                

“I will try to remember that, Illia.” He offered her a smile in return, before his eyes moved to the ground below her bed. His cool, stern demeanor returned and Illia knew she was caught. There was no way he would know to look at the exact floorboard; she should have known better. Of course he was still acting as her shadow, even if Ulfric was there. “I want you to know Illia that I am extremely loyal to Jarl Ulfric. He saved my life, in fact. The Thalmor were hunting me.”

“Why would the Thalmor hunt you?”

“Because of my parentage.” He said quickly, making it very clear that he would say no more on the matter. Illia didn’t wish to test him anyways. “He has trusted me although most men would be smart in not. He is respectable and honorable.”

“You make it sound as if you wish to court him.” Illia quipped which caught the mage off-guard. Despite himself, he couldn’t contain his laughter.              

“If I did fancy men, I think I would admire him. However, I am easily swept away by the female form.” Darren replied, his voice sincere and light. “What I mean to say is that you are to be his wife. As such, I want to make it very clear where my alliances stand.”

“Are you warning me of something, Darren? Because I would prefer it if you were simply forward.”

“On the contrary, I’m simply telling you that as Ulfric’s bride-to-be, I will do everything in my power to protect you and keep your family safe.” Said Darren, his eyes almost desperate for her to understand. He would not force her to remain in Windhelm, and he would follow any orders Ulfric asked of him. But he would do all he could to protect her. Somehow, she almost believed him.              

“Thank you, Darren.” She replied “You seem to be extremely loyal and I admire this about you. Your friendship is one I would come to cherish in the upcoming years.” With that, Darren nodded, leaving her with one last smile before turning foot to make his leave.                                              

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

 

_Later that night…_                

The servant clothes barely clung to her small frame, so much so that Illia had been forced to fashion another belt hole so the pants would be small enough to cling to her hips. Tucking in her cotton shirt, she finished dressing by changing into her rugged boots and strapping her mother’s cloak around her throat. The only piece of jewelry she carried was the Amulet of Mara Lyanna had fashioned for her; she could not bear to part with it. Swinging her satchel across her shoulders, she quietly made her way back into the hallways.              

She was breathing heavier than what she wished to, causing the loose curls from her braid to hang lower in her face. Brushing the loose strands aside, she quietly continued her way down the hallway to where she had learned the armory of Windhelm was located.                

As she turned the corner, she found herself almost face to face with her worst nightmare; Darren speaking with a few of the guards. Quietly, she forced her back against the wall so she would be hidden by the shadows. Of course he wouldn’t just let her go. He would get in her way in any subtle manner that he could. She cursed him silently for it.               

  She looked around and saw the engraved door which held in it the supplies she needed for her make her escape from Windhelm. Blue eyes glaring, she stared down the three guards that stood between her and her way of escape. She needed to keep her family safe, and the jarl seemed to pay no mind to that thought. She would get through, whether she had to put up a fight or not.               

  Her eyes scanned for anyway to enter the armory only for her catch the glimpse of a servant’s closet and another door which led to another bedroom on her side of the wall. There was no other way into the armor. She cursed, trying to think of what she could do to get the guards away from the door. Until finally, she noticed a set of curtains hanging too close to a sconce. Moving quietly, she moved the fabric so it hung directly over the open flame before darting into one of the extra bedrooms. Within a matter of moments, she could smell smoke filling the halls and the clamoring of Darren’s men.                

Barely opening the door, she witnessed all of them fighting to control the flames and so she made her move to the armory. Entering even more quietly than she had thought herself capable of, she grasped onto a white bow and a sleeve of arrows before racing out of the room and down the hall opposite of where the guards were fighting the on going fire.                

 

The harsh wind of Windhelm collided against her, but all she could do was smile. It was her first breath of fresh air since she had entered the older city. The crystal snow fell softly on the city roofs, blanketing the area so it seemed nearly pristine. However, she knew it meant they would have a simple time tracking her. Still, she would have to pray to Kynareth that the snow would cover her tracks. There was no turning back from her. Bow and arrows strapped securely to her back, she quickly moved through the city streets, managing to avoid on-watching guards until she was outside the gates of Windhelm.               

  Now, she was running. She wasn’t sure why, but she needed to move as fast as her legs would carry her away from the city—away from Darren---away from Ulfric. Guilt caused her chest to swell with agony. She was essentially betraying her family to save her family; betraying her future husband to ensure her parents could secure his alliances. And although she would never say it aloud, it was her one last chance at having her freedom. She knew she would have to return to Ulfric; she would marry him. However, she could enjoy the time she had left until then. It was this thought that made the guilt melt away as she grasped the leather reigns of an unknown horse and gingerly climbed its back.               

 

She would find her freedom. She would save her family. She could only pray that Mara was guiding her path.

  _~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

Akaviri Translation: “Mara, goddess of compassion and mercy, I beg you to comfort me in this hour of need. My heart is stone against the path you have laid before me and I am ashamed. If you will it for me to marry this man, bring me love for him. But if you have carved for me a different path, I beg of you, free me of this burden.”

 


End file.
